(A/N: This was originally intended as a short story and I am unsure whether or not I will carry it any farther. Reviews and opinions would both be appreciated.)
Defending Andraste
A cool breeze breaks across his face, helping clear the vestiges of fog that cloud his mind. He leaves his eyes shut and just stands there for a moment. Or at least he thinks he's standing, he's not sure. He tries to flex his fingers. He may or may not have succeeded. He asks himself if he is dead. He then thinks to himself that compared to what happened at the tower, this could almost be an improvement, all those mages fighting... where is the tower? He smiles to think that he, Templar, Servant of Andraste, should not know the way to the Tower of the Circle of Magi.
Don't get too comfortable Templar. He opens his eyes and sees the mage, he shivers. The man looks a hawk, or a wolf, some cross between the two. A gaze that could melt ice or freeze fire and a countenance as alert as any to be seen. He almost seems a wraith of some ill omen standing there. And then there are the eyes, a faint blue silver light in them like the blue silver moon over and behind his head to turn him mostly into a silhouette. Himself, the mage, black silhouettes of trees and the small clearing of grass lit by the moon are all that the Templar can see. He looks back at the mage, though the very act of it unnerves him. Not dead then. If he is not dead, the Templar realizes, he needs to act. He knows now that he is bound by blood magic, and begins focusing his will to break the spell. Yet try as he might, his Templar training is not helping him. All he seems able to do is regain the ability to flex his fingers.
The mage laughs. The sound is more unnerving than his face. Look down Templar.
Rope. He is tied to a tree with a rope. He does not expect this. He looks up and the mage smirks at him. What? Did you think I did not know how to tie a knot?
The Templar shakes his head as he slowly comes to the realization that he knows this mage. He was arguably the most talented among the apprentices, or even mages, the youngest to pass the Harrowing in nearly a century. He had also drawn about himself a certain air of unease, more through manner than deed, the air has not been lost. He is an accomplished misanthrope and eccentric, and never once took an apprentice of his own after passing the Harrowing. Rumours soared high and low on the winged tongues of gossips that he was a maleficar, but no one ever found proof. What his true name was, no one knew. It was and is for this reason that most call and called the wraith-like figure Rafter. To the Templar, the name is sufficient to this encounter.
Silence reigns awhile as Rafter stares at him, unblinking. It is far too unnerving to put into words. Over time however, his mind clears and he begins to view the situation objectively, coolly. The way any Templar should. What do you want from me? He asks.
Rafter still does not blink as he looks at him. Surely his eyes must be drying out. I want... a conversation. Ever had one with a mage, Templar?
He ignores the bait and instead asks Rafter what he would like to talk about. A smile like a razor slips across his lips, and still he does not blink. About the circle, of course.
The mage has all the power here. He knows it, Rafter knows it. He knows that Rafter knows it. He acts unfazed in his response. So then talk if that's what you want.
Rafter stares at him still, and still refuses to blink, it is unnatural. That is perhaps the most disturbing of his many unsettling aspects. I'll leave it to you to pick the topic.
Somehow, he knew that answer was coming. So he remains silent, and Rafter continues to stare at him as if his eyelids physically cannot close. There is a light in those ever-staring eyes that clearly says that Rafter is in no hurry, and that he may take as long as he wishes. He recalls to himself the fight at the circle, all those mages rebelling at once. The carnage, the abominations. He had not thought such a thing possible given past history The tower had been safe. It had been stable, for Maker's sake. He felt the heat overtaking him as he thought of it. What do the ingrates want? They are given all that can be allowed, and still they want more! What can be done with such hopelessly ungrateful brats?
He calms himself and looks straight into Rafter's eye. What do you mean by it? What are you trying to say?
The mage considered that and walked around him in a circle. He tried to follow but could only move his neck so far. Reappearing on the left hand side he spoke: Personally? That I am not some slobbering inbred senseless Ferelden Mabari Bitch being tugged around by her master at her will. Which is to say, I am through with the Chantry, and I am through with the tower. His voice towards the end is as angry as it never was before. The Templar hopes that works to his advantage.
He raises an eyebrow. You would turn your back on Andraste? On the Maker? After all they have given us?
Rafter laughs audibly enough to starkly contrast their previous voices, showing that the scene had actually been very quiet theretofore. Then he finishes abruptly, and stares once again. Still he has not blinked. Do not begin to pretend your Chantry, or your prophet for that matter, truly follow the Maker. You delude yourself to think that.
His mouth hangs open, incredulous. We strictly adhere to Andraste's teachings.
Rafter smiles again, and probably would burst out laughing again if not for the fact that he doesn't. When did Andraste teach that mages are to be sealed away in prisons all their lives to be overseered by heartless men in steel who happen to wear a sword on their armour?
The Templar is at a loss, as he suddenly comes to the realization that the Circles are never mentioned in any of the canticles. Only that magic must not be used to harm others. Mages are dangerous, the Circles are necessary to prevent harm.
Rafter raises an eyebrow, but still never do his eyes close for even the briefest of moments. The Templar feels a shadow of horror trace across his chest as Rafter begins reciting the third commandment of the Maker:
All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, From the lowest slavesTo the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of his children are hated and accursed by the Maker.
And still the villain does not blink as he offers his reflections on it. Tell me Templar, how have the mages of the circle provoked anyone into doing them harm? What have we done to be done the harm of being torn from our families and to be forced to live our entire lives in prisons?
The Templar feels a death chill in his spine. Is this what being manipulated by blood magic feels like? No. As much as he hates to admit it, he is absolutely certain that his feelings are his own. But the greatest dread, he realizes, comes not from the mage driving a wedge into his faith, but rather that Rafter is doing it so easily. Mages can and have done terrible things. The only thing done by the circle is what is needed.
Why in the name of the Maker's mercy would Rafter not blink? This from a servant of an institution that declares war in the name of a name. I daresay a great many things the Chantry does it thinks are necessary. This does not change the evil or the hypocrisy of them. If you insist on defending the Circle, offer me something better.
The Templar is silent. There is nothing to be said. Rafter looks at him, the unnervingly passive expression is finally dropped, to be replaced by a hatred that has been repressed since long before he ever took this Templar prisoner. Long before his apprenticeship even. I thought it would be harder.
The templar looks at him, he doesn't realize it, but there is a confused look on his face. What are you talking about?
Rafter folds his arms. The true reason I brought you here, was to instill doubt. I want you to question yourself, are you not the monster you are told that you are? Isn't there truth when a mage says the Templars are an order of savage tyranny? He leans in deathly close, and yet still his eyes refuse to shut, why will they not shut? Being taught you are a monster your entire life, or told you are in a compelling enough manner, will cause you to wonder if you are not what you are led to believe you are, even though you should know that you are not. It Is Not Human. He breaks off there, letting the words force a tense silence into the air, as if a giant palm is keeping all the air still. Then Rafter leans back out and turns away for a moment. Then he looks at the Templar again. I thought it would be harder, to shake the faith of one of an order of zealots to the foundations.
The templar thinks of what Rafter implies by stopping where he does. He looks back... there are certain looks from the apprentices, were they hating? Even though he didn't harm them, could they hate him too? If so, why? That was easy, he was and is the emblem of their jailors. But is he a jailor. He shakes his head of the thought and forces his mind to his duty, which is to stop this mage. He gives himself a furious reprimand for having let the mage sway him so easily. He looks at Rafter defiantly. You cannot run forever, you do know that right? We still hold your phylactery.
This? Rafter asks as he holds up the device. It is one of the newer compass models that replaced the glass phials that were the norm just a few years ago. The Templar takes in a breath. The mage lays it flat on the ground and takes four steps back. The red light that serves as a needle does not track him, but rather the Templar. Rafter looks at him as he comes back to pick up the phylactery. As it turns out, having a phylactery works to my advantage.
They will still hunt you until the day you die. He replies.
Rafter places the pendant somewhere within the black and red robe he is wearing. I I wasn't prepared to live like that, do you think I would be here now? The question is cold, and neither asks nor wants for an answer, an especially dark look falls into his face. The eyes, still open, should be pulled out and ripped to shreds in the most violent way possible. They are surely evil things to stay open so long.
Suddenly Rafter's face lightens a shade and he addresses his prisoner in a more cordial tone. At any rate, I suppose they will catch up soon, the tower is about a league over that hill. He pointed to a lump of black just like any of the other distant black lumps on the horizon. So I suppose we should make an end of this interview.
This is it. The Templar says his last prayers to the maker, certain that he is going to die. Instead Rafter looks at him. You pray to a name, Templar. A name worth praying to, but a name nonetheless.
The Templar looks at him as he puts a hand to his chin. You know, considering what happened with the Old Gods, the chantry is surprisingly hypocritical. The Templar stares at him, waiting for an explanation. Rafter continues. Would it surprise you to learn that your superiors are keeping dragons in the lower chambers of the tower? That they've been doing it for as long as I was there? I wandered into the holding pen one morning when I was six. I've studied them ever since. It's most intriguing. And useful, as it turns out.
The Templar looks at him. How so?
I have always been of the mind that the body is, contrary to popular belief, malleable. So I've spent the better part of my life learning how those dragons live, it is the first step to being what they are. Of course it was not until quite recently I learned how to work the magic. I no longer have to be human, Templar.
He grins savagely at the Templar's look of disbelief. If I am to be a monster, I would be a monster with wings. He winks at the Templar, finally proving that his eyes are in fact capable of closing. It is no comfort. Rafter takes one last survey of his hostage. Until our next meeting, Templar.
Rafter turns around and strides off into the trees, and is promptly lost in darkness and distance. It becomes clear to the Templar that he was lying. It was a scare tactic, meant to deter pursuit. Still, of all the things... he shudders suddenly as he remembers the look on Rafter's face as he told him. He tries to wash those unblinking eyes from his mind but they won't go.
It is dawn. A group of his fellows have finally found him. As they cut him loose he makes the comment that the mage is still watching. Yet, after a thorough search of the area, Rafter is not found. He insists that the mage is there, and is subsequently labeled as traumatized, and returned to the tower. He will continue to insist that he is being watched by Rafter's unblinking eyes.